Everything I'm Not
by LindsayC173
Summary: The story we all know and love, but from a very different point of view. Draco Malfoy's struggle to live up to his father's expectations, and his intense jealousy of the wonderful, perfect Harry Potter who seems to be everything he's not. Please R
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is basically Harry Potter and the Philosopher's/Sorcerer's Stone from Draco Malfoy's point of view. I may eventually - and it could take me a very _very_ long time - try and do the whole series. But only if people like it so please let me know what you think.

**Disclaimer:** All character's, places etc. belong to J.

Chapter One

It's a normal day when my Hogwarts letter comes, and we don't make a big deal about it. It's not like it was unexpected, after all. I've been showing signs of magic since I was five. And besides, how could I _not_ be a wizard? I'm Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. On both sides, my parents are part of a direct line of pure-bloods. As far back as can be remembered, every member of our family has been a witch or wizard, with the exception of a few embarrassing – and now disowned – family members who have chosen to marry mudbloods, or worse, muggles. So anyway, it wasn't like _I_ was going to be a squib.

This doesn't stop my heart from giving a slight leap when Dobby comes in with the post, and hands me the long-awaited letter.

"Draco, darling! Your letter! How wonderful!" Mother exclaims, getting up to hug me.

"Now, now, Narcissa," Father drawls impassively, "There's no need to get so excited. I don't know why they bothered sending the letter at all. It's not like we needed to be _told_ that Draco is a wizard."

"Yeah, it's no big deal, Mother," I yawn, eager to show Father that I'm as uninterested in the letter as he is, and that I'm not some stupid kid who'll go dancing around the room from excitement. Perhaps I am a little excited, but there's no need for him to know that.

"Oh but they had to send him one," Mother points out, "It's got his book list and everything in it. And now we can go shopping and buy all his equipment. I was thinking next Wednesday would be a good day to go. What do you think, Lucius? Lucius? Are you listening?" Father glances up from his newspaper absentmindedly.

"What was that Narcissa?"

"I was asking if next Wednesday would be a good day for a trip to Diagon Alley," she says patiently. Mother never seems to get angry with Father, even when he treats her like this, not listening to a word she says or behaving as though she doesn't exist at all.

"Yes, yes, that's fine," he agrees, waving her away impatiently and going back to his newspaper. She gives a little sigh and, rising gracefully form the sofa, leaves the room. Aware that Father is in no mood for company, I follow her. Sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder if all fathers are like this. I don't really get many chances to talk to anyone else my age, so it's hard to know. But that will change soon, I remind myself, grinning a little. I'm going to Hogwarts!

Wednesday morning dawns clear and bright. Father is in a good mood. He talks cheerfully about his own days at Hogwarts, reminiscing about hours spent studying, and performing prefect duties and, though he makes it sound as though this was only very occasionally, relaxing in the Slytherin common room with his endless crowds of friends. It never even occurs to me to doubt the truth of these stories. I simply listen, entranced and eager to get to Hogwarts and follow in his footsteps. I have no doubt that I can be as talented and brilliant and hardworking and popular as Father was. Why shouldn't I be? I'm a Malfoy.

"And you're a brilliant flier, Draco," Father says, and I flush with pleasure at this very rare praise, "so I'll expect you to try out for the Slytherin house team as soon as possible."

"First-years aren't allowed broomsticks," Mother says, bursting my little bubble of happiness, " '_Parents are reminded that first-years are not allowed their own broomsticks,' " _she reads aloud. Father frowns.

"I'd forgotten about that rule," he says, "Well, Draco, you're to try out as soon as you're old enough and it'll be a crime if you're not picked. No son of mine will be refused a place on the house team." I smirk, visions of myself lifting the Quidditch trophy above my head and basking in the cheering and applause of my entire house flashing before my eyes. And, better still, the admiration on Father's face as he says proudly to his friends, "Yes, my son Draco. He won the Quidditch cup last year. Slytherin could never have done it without him. Yes, yes, he's an _excellent_ flier."

We enter the Leaky Cauldron, my head still spinning with wonderful fantasies. There's an odd buzz in the air as we sweep through, but Father either doesn't notice or doesn't care, as he doesn't stop to find out what has happened. Probably nothing exciting anyway, I tell myself. Nothing _we_ would care about.

There are a lot of people my age in Diagon Alley. A lot more than I am used to, anyway, but that is hardly surprising. Some are dragged around by harried parents desperate to get the shopping done as quickly as possible, while others wander slowly past the shops, staring in amazement at the stacks of gleaming cauldrons, the shops bursting with strange ingredients and unusual animals, the witches and wizards bustling around in their long robes. Muggle-borns of course. No one else would be so fascinated by these perfectly ordinary sights. I turn away, knowing what Father would say if he caught me watching them, but I can't help glancing back occasionally. I admit I am a little intrigued by them. What must it be like, I wonder, to see Diagon Alley for the first time after being raised as a muggle? Father is right, of course, that it is ridiculous to let them into Hogwarts. Not only for the sake of pure-bloods such as myself who shouldn't be forced to associate with the likes of _them_, but for their own sakes. After ten years in the muggle world, they will never truly be able to catch up, and it would be kinder just to leave them in the muggle world, where they could actually make something of themselves.

After a quick trip to Gringotts, where Father replenishes his supply of gold and provides me with my pocket money – twice as much as he usually gives me, but this _is_ a special day – we head towards Ollivander's for my wand. Father doesn't come – he has some business to conduct elsewhere – but Mother insists on accompanying me for this, which is why it has to come first as she also has other things to do in about half an hour.

My stomach lurches a little with nerves as I step into the small, dimly lit shop, Mother close behind me. A wand is the most important thing a wizard owns. Once I have one, I won't be a little child anymore; I'll be a wizard. A real wizard.

"Narcissa Malfoy," Ollivander says, appearing suddenly out of the shadows, "How time flies. I remember when you were first in here. Fourteen inches, made of cedar, very pliable. And young Draco," he continues, turning his pale, unblinking eyes on me. I shiver, but keep my face cool and expressionless. The man creeps me out, but I'm not going to let him see that so I stare impassively back at him as he goes on, "I suppose you're looking for your wand." I nod.

"Yes," I say coldly, "I am. And I'm in a hurry. So do hurry up." He stares at me for a moment longer, before pulling out a tape measure and beginning to take my measurements. I can feel Mother frowning at me – she doesn't like it when I talk to people like that – but I ignore her. Father treats everyone like they are inferior to him, and I don't see why I shouldn't do it too. People like Ollivander are here to serve us as their customers. They aren't _supposed_ to be treated like equals, whatever Mother may think.

"Hawthorn wood and unicorn hair, ten inches, quite springy," Ollivander says, placing a long box on the table in front of me. Slowly, I open it and lift out the wand. From the moment my fingertips touch it I know it is the right one. It fits perfectly in my hand, as though it is part of me already, and sparks fly from the end. Mother smiles and hugs me, but I shrug her off, keeping my face expressionless.

"I'll meet you outside, Mother," I say, sweeping from the shop with my wand in my hand and leaving her to pay Ollivander. I have to admit, I'm impressed by his speed. I had heard it normally took two or three tries to find the right wand, but I had found mine instantly. I smile. _My wand._ It was truly mine. Suddenly the sunshine feels a little warmer and the street looks a little brighter. I even deign to smile at a young witch passing by, not caring whether she is pure-blood, half-blood, or even a muggle-born. Right now, the world feels like a wonderful place to be.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Just discovered this chapter, which I wrote ages ago and never got round to uploading, so here you go!

**Disclaimer:** Draco Malfoy doesn't belong to me, and nor do any of the other characters.

Chapter Two

"I've got to meet someone in Flourish and Blotts," Mother informs me as we hurry down Diagon Alley, "so I'll try and pick up your books at the same time. Are you sure you'll be okay going to Madam Malkin's on your own?"

"Yes, Mother, I'll be fine," I say wearily, for the fifteenth time. Honestly! What does she think is going to happen to me? This is Diagon Alley, for goodness sake! I've been here a thousand times. Father even let me wander around _Knockturn_ Alley on my own once, not that Mother knows that. She would probably have a fit if she did.

"Well, be careful," she says anxiously as I finally convince her I'll be fine and set off towards Madam Malkin's, free at last.

As I stepped into the shop, Madam Malkin hurries up to me.

"Master Malfoy," she says warmly, having had me in her shop countless times before, "I suppose you're here for your Hogwarts things?" I return her smile, rather liking the short, friendly witch who always seems so fond of everyone. Father would tell me she is still nothing but a shop owner and that I should treat her as such, but in this case I cannot help but defy him just a little. I've known Madam Malkin since I was five. She's different.

An assistant leads me to a small footstool at the back of the shop and begins to pin my robes in place, while Madam Malkin returns to the door to welcome another boy my age. He has messy black hair and a rather lost expression, as though this is not something he is used to doing. Madam Malkin talks to him for a moment, before gesturing towards me and leading him to stand on another footstool beside mine. Realising this is likely to be one of my future classmates, I try to strike up a conversation, but he strikes me as being a little thick and doesn't say much. Remembering his confused, nervous expression as he came in, I wonder whether he might be a muggle-born. That would certainly explain his lack of knowledge about Quidditch or the school houses.

I am about to ask him about this when a very large, bearded man appears at the window, waving two enormous ice creams.

"I say, look at that man!" I say, nodding towards him. At this, the boy seems a little more interested.

"That's Hagrid," he tells me, "He works at Hogwarts." Hagrid. The name sounds familiar. Suddenly, I remember.

"Oh," I say, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"He's the gamekeeper," the boy replies. His voice is a little cool, but I barely notice. I am remembering everything Father has told me about this man, who is just another of Dumbledore's ridiculous staff choices.

"Yes, exactly," I agree, "I heard he's a sort of _savage_ – lives in a hut in the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic and ends up setting fire to his bed."

"I think he's brilliant," the boy says, and this time there is no missing the icy edge in his voice. My forehead furrows a little. Who does this boy think he is, trying to claim he knows more about Hogwarts' staff than me? Father is on the board of school governors. I know a lot more about Hagrid and the problems he has caused than most people.

"_Do _you?" I sneer, and then, curious as to who exactly this boy is, I ask, "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"They're dead," he replies shortly, and I feel a slight twinge of guilt for bringing up the subject. Perhaps it was a little insensitive.

"Oh, sorry," I say automatically, but then, because I do need to know, I ask, "But they were _our_ kind, weren't they?"

"They were a witch and a wizard, if that's what you mean." This reply surprises me. Of course that's what I mean. What else could I possibly be talking about? But I keep talking, wanting to share my views – or at least, Father's views – on pure-bloods and muggle-borns with this boy, and to see whether he agrees with me on this, at least.

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families." The boy looks a little uncomfortable, and I wonder if perhaps he was lying when he said his parents were magical, so I add, "What's your surname, anyway?"

The boy is about to reply when Madam Malkin interrupts, saying to him, "That's you done, my dear," and the boy hops down.

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," I call after him, promising myself that I will find out then what family he belongs to. He doesn't reply, and I'm a little sorry to see him go. Not that he was the most scintillating of company, but getting robes fitted is a boring procedure and Mother insisted on me buying twice as many sets as I will actually need, so I know it will take a while.

By the time I am finally finished, Mother and Father have taken care of everything they had to, as well as buying the rest of my school stuff. I try to persuade Father to buy me a new racing broom, but he insists there is no point if I can't get onto the house team yet.

I am about to mention the strange, black-haired boy in the shop, but Father is talking to Mother about some news he has just heard.

"Harry Potter is coming to Hogwarts this year," he says, "He was here in Diagon Alley today, buying his school things." I feel a little thrill of excitement. Harry Potter – _the_ Harry Potter – will be in _my_ year at school! Father turns to me and continues, "Draco, if you can befriend him, that might be helpful. There are still _certain people _who like to accuse me of being willingly associated with the Dark Lord, back when he was in power, and if my son were to be a friend of Harry Potter's, that might go some way towards convincing them otherwise. Do you understand, Draco?"

"Yes, Father," I assure him, "I will do my best."

When we get home, Dobby has prepared a meal for us. Father yells at him for a few minutes for not preparing it correctly, and he creeps away, apologising profusely and promising to punish himself immediately. I ignore them and begin to eat, seeing absolutely nothing wrong with the meal but knowing that telling Father this would be a mistake. He is in a bad mood and clearly needs to yell at someone, and that's what house elves are there for, surely?

When we have finished eating, I go upstairs to my bedroom. Dobby has unpacked all of our shopping, so my books are sitting on my desk and my robes are hanging neatly in my wardrobe. I pick up one of the books and flick through it, looking excitedly at all the spells I will soon be able to perform. I can hardly believe it. I'm going to Hogwarts! I've always known that, of course, but it never felt this real before.

It isn't until I get into bed that night that my excitement is dampened a little, and nerves replace it. What if I'm not good enough? Father is always talking about his ten OWLs and seven NEWTs, and about how he was a prefect _and_ Head Boy, and how all the teachers loved him. What if I can't live up to that? He expects me to be just as brilliant as he was, but what if I'm not? Is it enough that I'm a Malfoy? Father believes it is. He always says that Malfoys, and other pureblood families, are far superior to all other families, particularly in terms of intelligence and magical ability. So maybe I will just naturally excel at everything. I really hope so. I've never disappointed Father before, and I would hate to see how he would react if I did.

Eventually, exhausted by the events of the day, I drift into an uneasy sleep, punctuated with strange dreams filled with strange dark-haired boys and people laughing and Father yelling.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Enjoying writing this story at the moment, so expect regular updates. Please review!**

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter isn't mine**

Chapter Three

The next few weeks drag by. Father tells me constant stories about Hogwarts and, while I am eager to have as much information as possible in advance in order to be completely prepared, it also has the effect of making me very nervous. I am desperate for the first of September to arrive, so I can go to Hogwarts and experience everything for myself, but the weeks stretch out to resemble months and soon I am convinced it will never come.

Eventually, however, it does. Mother checks my trunk for the millionth time – she never trusts Dobby to pack properly – and Father gives me one last talk on the importance of upholding the family honour and then I am ready. We hurry to the station, which is bustling with chattering people and squawking owls and rattling trolleys, and then I hug Mother, shake hands with Father and clamber onto the train.

I quickly find Crabbe and Goyle, two boys I have known since the age of two – both are a little slow, but they're handy to have around – and we find an empty compartment. I sit by the window from which I can see Mother bravely fighting back tears as she waves to me, and Father, composed as ever, talking calmly to Crabbe's father about something. Glancing up, he gives me a brief nod and then returns to his conversation, and my heart sinks a little. Would it have been so hard for him to seem slightly upset at me leaving? Could he not have given me more acknowledgement than a single nod? I know it is important to show as little emotion as possible in public – Father has drilled that into me from a very young age – but sometimes I wish he would be a little more relaxed in following his own rules.

I do not let my disappointment show, however, as I give Mother a quick wave and then turn from the window to talk to Crabbe and Goyle. The train gives a loud hoot and pulls away from the station, soon leaving the crowds of sobbing, waving or completely oblivious parents behind. I smile, my spirits lifting. I'm on my way to Hogwarts!

I don't bother trying to start a conversation with Crabbe and Goyle. They're not really the conversational type. I'd have to do all the talking myself, really slowly and clearly if I wanted them to understand anything I said, and I really don't have the energy for that at the moment. Instead, I pull out one of my schoolbooks and start reading. Father has impressed on me many times how important it is to study regularly in order to ever do well, and I am determined to begin with as much of a head start as possible.

After a little while, the trolley comes round. Crabbe and Goyle naturally spend every last sickle they have with them, which isn't much because both their mothers are far too sensible to trust them with any significant amount of money, on sweets and proceed to stuff their faces, but I am a little more practical. I know Mother will send sweets the moment I arrive at school, so it would be ridiculous to spend all my money on them now. Instead, I merely buy a single Pumpkin Pasty and then help myself to some of Crabbe's chocolate frogs. He glares at me a little and begins to eat even faster as if in an attempt to finish everything before I have a chance to take anything else, but he doesn't argue. I knew he wouldn't. He never does.

Content, I sit back comfortably in my seat and continue to read. However, it is a monotonous book and my companions do nothing to relieve the boredom. Eventually, setting the book down, I decide I need to do something, and for the first time I remember what Father said. _"Harry Potter is coming to Hogwarts this year … Draco, if you can befriend him, that might be helpful … Do you understand, Draco?" _The best time to befriend Harry Potter would be now, before we get to school and somebody else has the chance to try and claim him. After all, he is _Harry Potter_. There are bound to be a lot of people who will be eager to make friends with him. But _I_ have the advantage. _I_ already know he is here. Most of the others do not.

Crabbe and Goyle have finished all their food and, lacking the money to buy more, are happy to trail along behind me. I decide it could be helpful to have them there. I want to give Harry Potter the impression that I already have friends, and that our friendship would be something _he_ would benefit from, rather than me.

I'm disappointed to discover that many people already know of Harry Potter's presence on the train, but it does help that they can point me towards his compartment. Sliding the door open, I discover, to my surprise, that Harry Potter is none other than the black-haired boy from Madam Malkin's.

"Is it true?" I say calmly, trying to cover my surprise, "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"Yes," Harry Potter replies, and I notice him looking at Crabbe and Goyle.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," I say casually, feeling I ought to give them some introduction, before moving on to the more important business of introducing myself, "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy." I hear a snort and turn, noticing, for the first time, that there is someone else is in the carriage. Red haired, with freckles and a tatty-looking jacket: I recognise his type, if not the boy personally.

Furious with this blood traitor for getting to Harry Potter before me, and for undermining my introduction, I say cuttingly, "Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles and more children than they can afford." Hoping that this has put him in his place, and turning back to Harry Potter, I continue, "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there." I stick out my hand, confident that I have impressed Potter enough that he will be thrilled to be friends with me now, but he doesn't take it.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," he says coldly and I flush a little, knowing I have gone about this completely wrong, but unable to back down now.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," I say, "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riff-raff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid and it'll rub off on you." Potter and Weasley stand up, both looking furious, and I know I have blown any chance of friendship, so decide to give up on that completely.

"Say that again," Weasley says. I want to laugh. Like I could be scared of Potter and Weasley when I have Crabbe and Goyle on my side.

"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" I sneer.

"Unless you get out now," Potter says firmly, and I have to admire his courage, even if it is stupid. I've never seen someone that brave when faced with Crabbe and Goyle before.

"But we don't feel like leaving, do we, boys?" I say calmly, "We've eaten all our food and you still seem to have some." Goyle, taking this as permission to eat, his favourite hobby, reaches towards a pile of chocolate frogs. Weasley leaps forwards, but doesn't even touch Goyle before Goyle yells loudly. As he pulls his hand out of the sweets and swings it round I see a rat hanging from his finger, teeth sunk deep into his knuckle. Crabbe and I back out of the room, terrified that more rats might be hidden among the sweets, and flee down the corridor, knocking into a bushy-haired girl, who calls bossily after us to be more careful, before being knocked into again by Goyle, who has dislodged the rat from his finger and is racing after us.

Sinking into my seat back in our compartment, I curse myself for my stupidity. That _couldn't_ have gone worse. Of course, it didn't help that Potter had already made friends with a Weasley, but looking back I probably shouldn't have insulted his new friend in front of him. Then again, what else could I have done? It wasn't like I could make _friends_ with a Weasley. Father would _never_ approve of that, even if I were just doing it in an attempt to befriend Potter. And actually, I don't _want_ to befriend Potter any more. He seems like an arrogant jerk. But I suppose maybe _I_ came off as a little arrogant. I sigh. It doesn't matter now. Potter and I will never be friends, of that I am certain. Father will be disappointed, but I'm sure he will see it was not my fault. I tried.

Soon the train begins to slow, lifting my spirits considerably. We're almost there! I hear a voice: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately." My stomach lurches with a mixture of nerves and excitement. We're finally there! We're finally at Hogwarts!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here!" the voice of that _gamekeeper_ Hagrid meets us the moment we get off the train, "C'mon, follow me – any more firs'-years? Mind yer step, now! Firs'-years follow me!"

In silence, we follow him down a dark, narrow path. I keep my eyes fixed on the lamp, bobbing away in front of us, and do my best not to slip.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid calls back to us, "jus' round this bend here." I look up eagerly, and then suddenly it appears. Towering high above us at the far side of a vast, black lake is Hogwarts. Tall and magnificent, with an endless array turrets and towers and sparkling windows, it looks every bit as glorious as I imagined it being. For a moment I just stand and stare, then Hagrid's voice breaks into my reverie.

"No more'n four to a boat!" he calls, pointing to some little boats bobbing on the water by the shore. Quickly, I clamber into one of them, followed by Crabbe, Goyle and a boy I have met once or twice before called Theodore Nott.

"Everyone in?" Hagrid shouts from his own boat, "Right then – FORWARD!" The boats glide away at once, and I stare, awestruck, at the castle as we draw closer and closer, still unable to quite comprehend that I'm really here, and that this is going to be my home for the next seven years.

"Heads down!" Hagrid yells and I duck immediately, just in time to avoid hitting my head on the entrance to a small tunnel through the cliff. Luckily, most of my classmates-to-be are too focused on everything else to notice my near miss – it would have been unbelievably embarrassing if Potter and Weasley had noticed, but Theodore laughs and I flush, glaring at him. He just grins and I punch him lightly on the shoulder. I don't mind Theodore – he's by far the most intelligent of the kids Dad's friends bring with them when they come to visit – and I hope he goes into Slytherin too. Crabbe and Goyle are handy to have around, but it'll be nice to have a proper conversation once in a while.

Pretty soon we come to a small, underground harbour, where we climb carefully out of the boats.

"Oy, you there!" Hagrid says, "Is this your toad?"

"Trevor!" cries a round-faced boy, running forward to take the toad from Hagrid's hands. I exchange a look with Theodore. A _toad_? Who takes a _toad_ as a pet?

We follow Hagrid up a passageway and out into the open air, and then up a flight of stone steps to a huge, oak door.

"Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?"

Hagrid raises his fist and knocks three times on the door. Immediately, it swings open to reveal a tall, black-haired witch with green robes and a very stern expression.

"The firs'-years, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid says.

"Thank you, Hagrid," she replies, "I will take them from here." We file in through the enormous door and across the magnificent Entrance Hall, gazing around in wonder. I live in a pretty huge mansion and have seen some amazing buildings in my time, but Hogwarts is like nothing I have ever seen before. The splendour of the Entrance Hall alone outdoes every other house, mansion or castle I have ever seen. However, I remain impassive, betraying none of my amazement and doing my best to seem unimpressed, while around me my classmates gape in undisguised awe at our surroundings.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall says, after leading us into a smaller room off the Entrance Hall, "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory and spend free time in your house common room."

She continues to talk, about the different houses and the House Cup, and various other things I already know. I quickly stop listening, instead watching my classmates. Most are listening raptly, taking in every word she says. Potter and Weasley are standing together, both clearly very nervous. A bushy-haired girl standing not far from them is listening so carefully she could be memorising every word McGonagall says, and beside her the round-faced boy with the toad is trembling visibly. Theodore, who is standing next to me, is a little white but otherwise betrays very little sign of being nervous, a result of being brought up as part of Pureblood society as I was. Crabbe and Goyle are as emotionless as ever, but I suspect this is more due to them being too stupid to understand what is going on rather than because of good upbringing and self-control.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," McGonagall finishes, "Please wait quietly." As she leaves the room, a low murmur of chatter breaks out.

"How exactly do they sort us into houses?" I hear Potter ask Weasley.

"Some sort of test, I think," he replies, "Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."

Around the room, similar conversations are taking place between other groups of students, and the bushy-haired girl is whispering anxiously about what spells she might have to use. I chuckle inwardly, and Theodore and I exchange an amused glance. Surely _someone_ other than us knows that all we have to do is put on a hat? But apparently not. I suppose that is just one more advantage of coming from a family whose magical bloodline stretches back to the days that Hogwarts was first founded. And coming from respectable families, of course. The blood-traitor Weasleys have a long and pure bloodline, but clearly don't possess the ability to educate their children about the important traditions and customs of Hogwarts, judging by Weasley's confused and nervous expression, at least.

Suddenly everyone gasps, and I glance up to see a large group of ghosts glide in through the wall. I jump, and then glance around to see if anyone saw, but they are all too focused on the ghosts, to my great relief.

"Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance –" a fat little man is saying.

"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves?" another replies, "He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost – I say, what are you all doing here?" he asks, suddenly noticing us.

There is silence as everyone just stares, too tongue-tied to answer. I am thinking about taking charge and answering for all of us, when the Fat Friar speaks again.

"New students!" he says, "About to be sorted, I suppose?"

A few people nod.

"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!" he says, "My old house, you know."

I hear Theodore snort derisively, just as Professor McGonagall returns.

"Move along now," she says sharply, "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start." The ghosts drift away slowly, and she turns to us.

"Now, form a line and follow me," she says, and we obey, walking back across the Entrance Hall, and through a large pair of doors into the Great Hall.

If I thought the Entrance Hall was impressive, it's nothing compared to this. The students are divided clearly into their four houses, and seated at four long tables, over which thousands of candles are floating, bathing the hall in a warm, flickering light. Overhead, millions of stars twinkle in a velvety sky, and if I hadn't been told so by Father, it would be hard to believe that it isn't really the sky, but simply a very clever enchantment.

Every eye is fixed on us as we make our way down the Great Hall towards a very old, very frayed hat, sitting on a small stool. I wonder whether the rest of my classmates have figured out how the Sorting will take place yet, but by the way they are staring at the hat as though it is about to leap off the stool and attack them, I gather that they have not.

There are a few moments of absolute silence, and then a rip in the hat opens up and it begins to sing:

_ "Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_

_ But don't judge on what you see,_

_ I'll eat myself if you can find_

_ A smarter hat than me …"_

I tune out after the first few lines, too nervous to pay attention. In all the excitement of arriving, I have forgotten to be nervous up until now, but it has suddenly hit me that in a few minutes I'm going to be sorted. Not that there's a _question_ of where I'll go, trying on the Sorting Hat is just a formality really, I have no doubt whatsoever that I'll be in Slytherin, but what if …?

_ "So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

_ And don't get in a flap!_

_ You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

_ For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

The hat finishes its song and I applaud automatically with the rest of the Hall. I can see the relief on the faces of my fellow first-years, though many of them, particularly those I know to be of wizarding families, who presumably have family traditions to live up to.

"Abbot, Hannah!" Professor McGonagall reads from a long roll of parchment, and a girl stumbles up to the stool, where she sits down with the hat on her head.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat shouts after a moment, and she goes to sit down at the Hufflepuff table. Professor McGonagall continues to read names from the list, and slowly the number of students standing up decreases as people are sorted into their houses and go to sit down at their respective tables. The girl with the bushy hair and the extensive knowledge of spells turns out to be called Hermione Granger, and is sorted into Gryffindor. Granger isn't a name I recognise, so I suspect she is a muggle-born, or a half-blood at best. She certainly doesn't come from any of the old wizarding families.

The round-faced boy with the toad is called Neville Longbottom, and is also sorted into Gryffindor, though it takes a long time, and then it's almost my turn. 'MacDougal, Morag' becomes a Ravenclaw, and then:

"Malfoy, Draco!" I swagger forward, grinning confidently to disguise the doubts flooding through my mind. I _have_ to be in Slytherin, I _will_ be in Slytherin, there's no way anything else could happen. But what if I'm not? What would Father say? And all my friends? Not that they'd _be_ my friends anymore … I'd have to make new friends from some other house … they wouldn't understand the superior treatment I'm entitled to due to being a Malfoy … and I'd be absolutely disgraced … and quite apart from all the expectations, I _want_ to be in Slytherin … or at least I think I do … except that I want a chance to be my own person … not just following in my father's footsteps all the time … and maybe that would be easier in another house … NO! I stop that thought, terrified of where it could be going. I _want_ to be in Slytherin, I _have_ to be in Slytherin, I _will_ be in Slytherin. That's all there is to it.

And then I've reached the stool and I'm putting the hat on my head, and it's the moment of truth.

"SLYTHERIN!"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Why does my heart sink a little as I walk towards the Slytherin table? Why do I find myself wondering what life might have been like in one of the other houses? That's just ridiculous, isn't it? I _wanted _to be in Slytherin. I _do _want to be in Slytherin.

I sit with Crabbe and Goyle, doing my best to look pleased about the result of the Sorting – I _am_ pleased with the result of the Sorting – and watch with interest as everyone else is sorted. To my great relief, Theodore is also in Slytherin. I'm not sure I could survive seven years with only Crabbe and Goyle, who are currently arguing about whether it's true that they can eat as much as they want during the Hogwarts feast, without anyone telling them when to stop. Honestly, do those two _ever _think about anything other than food?

Potter sits on that stool for a very, _very _long time before the Hat finally puts him into Gryffindor. My heart sinks a little further. I suppose I was sort of hoping that maybe if he was in Slytherin – away from that awful Weasley kid – we could maybe still have been friends. But now he's in Gryffindor I _have _to hate him. Father will be so disappointed.

Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster stands and I watch him curiously, eager to learn more about this legendary wizard Father despises so much. I am expecting something insightful and motivating, or perhaps something obscure and a little unusual. What I am not expecting is what I hear.

"Welcome!" he says, "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

"Thank you!"

He sits back down, amid a storm of clapping. Theodore looks very disapproving, but I can't help but grin a little. It's hard to understand why Father hates this man. He seems like such an interesting person. A little eccentric perhaps, but fairly harmless. What could possibly be so awful about him?

Then the food appears, and I'm immediately distracted. I may not be Crabbe and Goyle (Crabbe is stuffing his face within moments of it appearing, and Goyle looks like he might faint) but I have to admit I'm impressed. It's not like our family is ever short of food, and I've grown up with endless feasts and parties, but I don't think I've ever seen such an impressive spread of food before in my life. I exchange an impressed look with Theodore, and we tuck in, chattering away excitedly all the while.

"I wonder what classes we'll have first," Theodore says.

"I'm looking forward to Potions," I say, "My father is good friends with the Potions Master." As I hoped, the other first years look very impressed by this.

"I heard Professor Snape's really scary," one of the girls says apprehensively.

"Yeah, I guess he is a bit," I say casually, waving a hand dismissively at her, "But only to other people. It's not like _I _would ever find him scary." She looks a little awed, and I grin at Theodore.

"How about you, Theodore?" I ask, "What subjects are you looking forward to?"

"Oh, call me Theo," he says warmly, "Potions too, I guess. And Transfiguration sounds pretty cool."

"I've heard History of Magic is absolutely awful," the girl says, turning to her friend, "Millie, didn't you say your mum told you it was taught by a ghost?"

"Yeah, that's what she said," Millie replies, "Apparently it's really boring. I'm looking forward to Defence Against the Dark Arts. That's supposed to be really cool. How about you, Daphne?"

The girl – Daphne – considers the question.

"Well I don't really like the sound of Professor Snape," she says, "I know he's our Head of House and everything, but he sounds really scary. I think I'll enjoy Charms and Transfiguration, though."

When we've all eaten so much we couldn't possibly manage another mouthful – except, perhaps, Crabbe and Goyle, who could _always _manage another mouthful – Dumbledore stands up to give a short speech. He talks briefly about the places we're not allowed to go, and I listen intently while doing my best to look cool and unconcerned. Father would kill me if I got into any serious trouble, but as a Slytherin it's my duty to look as though I couldn't care less about the rules. Besides, I don't want my friends thinking I'm _too _well behaved.

Dumbledore then insists that we all sing the school song. It's a messy, shambolic affair, with everyone singing at different speeds and in different tunes. I'm beginning to see why Father dislikes the headmaster so much. Father is very much in favour of discipline and order, and Dumbledore seems the exact opposite of those things.

Still, I can't help but quite enjoy it.

We follow the prefects out of the Great Hall and they lead us downstairs towards what I can only assume are the dungeons. Arriving at the doorway to our new common room, one of the prefects gives the password "serpent" and we are admitted to a large, green-tinged room. My father has already described it in great detail to me and shown me several photographs taken during his time at Hogwarts, and so I know exactly what to expect. My new classmates look equally unsurprised and unimpressed.

Unbidden, an image springs to my mind. I imagine the scenes taking place in some of the other common rooms, with excited muggleborns experiencing brand new places and aspects of Hogwarts, unprepared for it by any sort of previous information from their parents, and able to enjoy it in a way us purebloods never could.

I shake my head in an attempt to dislodge this thought. Of _course _it's better to have parents and grandparents and great-grandparents who went to Hogwarts and to have described it in so much detail I could practically picture it all before I even arrived. After all, who wants to be gawking at everything and squealing like some sort of pathetic kid? Much better to be able to look bored and unimpressed by everything, like Father always does.

We are shown up to our dormitories, where the house elves have already put our belongings. I quickly grab the best bed – furthest away from the door and tucked into a little corner with extra space around it – and Theo takes the bed next to mine. We're also sharing with Crabbe and Goyle, who take the beds nearest to the door (probably so that they can get to the Great Hall as quickly as possible at mealtimes), and someone called Blaise Zabini, who I think I've probably met before but don't really know very well.

Theo and I chat for a while before going to sleep, and I decide I'm going to like being friends with him. He's far cleverer than Crabbe and Goyle and can actually keep up with me in a conversation, and of course Father will approve because he's of a pureblood family almost as elite as my own. Plus he's got all the same views that I do on blood status and so on, as every sane person does.

These are only the reasons Father has taught me for making friends, though. Really, I just like having someone to talk to, someone funny and nice and my own age.

As I drop off to sleep in the large, four-poster bed almost as luxurious as my one at home, my last thought is that I reckon I'm going to like it here.


End file.
